


What It Means to Be Family

by YukinaKid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Gen, Gift Fic, Minor Injuries, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YukinaKid/pseuds/YukinaKid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade just wanted to spend a well deserved night's rest in the privacy of his own home. Unfortunately, due to circumstances that probably could have been predicted, Sherlock has come along for the ride. An underfed, contrary, consulting detective and Lestrade in the same flat? Lestrade will definitely have to rethink his evening plans. Pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What It Means to Be Family

**Author's Note:**

> You all are very lucky readers; you get two fics in a matter of days! Maybe this bodes well for 2014!
> 
> For SherlockianDE on the BBC Sherlock Forum. I've had this written since Thanksgiving (in the U.S.) and we got a story every other day until Christmas! So I can now share it with you all now!
> 
> The prompt was:  
> \- humour (maybe something with a misunderstanding- doesn't have to be though)  
> \- main characters: Sherlock, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson  
> \- friendship/bromance
> 
> Kind of encompasses some of the prompt. It was very difficult to write Sherlock without John, let me tell you! But thanks to my lovely beta and Brit-pick champ, MountainRose, I hope I pulled it off!

“One day you will do things for me that you hate. That is what it means to be family.”

― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated

* * *

  
  
Lestrade fumbled for his flat key, huddling against the biting wind. His gloved fingers finally grasped his key ring, wiggling it free from his pocket in a twisted mess. Behind him, Sherlock loitered, dressed in a coat three times too large and threadbare. Lestrade finally twisted the lock and shoved the water warped door open, trudging into his flat and leaving the door open in silent demand that Sherlock follow. He didn’t have to be looking at Sherlock to see the imperious look he was gifted with as he too entered the flat behind him. Lestrade shed his coat and scarf, depositing them unceremoniously on the back of the armchair as he passed, still decidedly ignoring Sherlock’s huffing and puffing behind him.  
  
Lestrade made his way into the small kitchenette, shoving aside some soiled mugs in favor of the chipped, cleaner ones.  
  
“Do you want a cuppa?” Lestrade called, filling the pot with cool water his pipes always seemed to manage. He got a decidedly loud huff for his trouble. Taking that as assent, he turned to switch the kettle on to boil.  
  
“So,” Lestrade started, wandering into the sitting room. Sherlock had his back to him, still wrapped in that ridiculously filthy coat, and seemed to be scrutinizing Lestrade’s collection of old tomes. “The missus is on holiday at her sister’s-”  
  
“No she’s not,” Sherlock interrupted. “She’s-”  
  
“-So you can take the bed,” Lestrade finished loudly, going to the cupboard to remove some fresh linens to dump on the couch for himself.  
  
Sherlock waited until he was in earshot and finished his thought. “-with the maths teacher at his house in Cardiff. Really, Lestrade, how did you not know that?”  
  
Lestrade studiously ignored him, yanking the afghan off the back of the couch, adding it to his already haphazard pile of sheets. His wife always fussed at him for his lack of patience when making a bed.  
  
Lestrade could feel Sherlock staring at him, deducing him or whatever such nonsense he did to try and unnerve people. When Lestrade could no longer plump the mountain of covers any longer, he turned to go and check on how the tea was getting along, all the while pretending Sherlock wasn’t piercing his soul with those luminous eyes. Lestrade could swear Sherlock took advantage of the lighting and cocked his head at just the right angle to give the creepiest stare.  
  
The kettle decided to take that opportunity to whistle shrilly. Lestrade padded back into the kitchenette and grabbed the kettle, turning to pour the tea. What greeted him was a birds’ nest mess of black curls five centimeters from his face. With a decidedly manly yelp, Lestrade jerked back, sloshing the scalding water on his left hand all the way down to his elbow. It took all of Lestrade’s strength to not abandon the kettle in midair. He only managed because Sherlock’s now bare feet were parked beneath the kettle’s possible path. He swiftly deposited the kettle in the sink with a satisfying metallic thump as he clawed at his jumper sleeve. Then Sherlock was there, capturing his right hand and effectively yanking his left sleeve up in a very precise manner. The skin was a deep, angry red and Lestrade squirmed at the intensity of the burning. Sherlock just grasped his left hand by the fingers, mercifully missing the burned skin, and glared at Lestrade to still him.  
  
Once he seemed satisfied Lestrade wouldn’t move, he went back to studying the arm with an unnerving amount of intensity. Lestrade clenched his eyes shut, knowing that delaying Sherlock would delay any relief he might find. Rough fingers fleetingly stroked his left hand, so softly that Lestrade barely felt it. He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, who was still studiously cataloguing his arm and in his “deductive mode” as Lestrade had dubbed it. Lestrade brushed the thought away that Sherlock could have been comforting him, his prickly personality more suited for solving a murder and concocting insults with one breath.  
  
“You’ll live,” Sherlock said dismissively, though he hadn’t relinquished his arm yet. Awkwardly, Sherlock ducked under Lestrade’s right side while still gripping his arm, forcing Lestrade to make a half turn to avoid Sherlock dislocating his shoulder. “Oi-” he began, only to be shushed quite loudly by Sherlock. Lestrade glared, but didn’t make a move to break free. He’d seen Sherlock snap the bones of corpses easily and he didn’t want to add a fracture to his already throbbing arm.  
  
Sherlock ripped a dishcloth from the neat stack his wife had folded, toppling the rest with the applied force. He turned the faucet on one handedly and liberally soaked the cloth, unceremoniously dumping the sopping thing on Lestrade’s burnt arm. Lestrade flinched, surprised by the wet rivulets crawling down his arm. Sherlock looked pointedly at him and released his arm, standing proudly like a child expecting praise.  
  
“Um,” Lestrade said, for lack of any other thoughts. Sherlock continued to stand there, so Lestrade nodded and Sherlock nodded. That was the end of it, apparently, because Sherlock huffed again.  
  
“Honestly. You didn’t have to bring me home with you like some stray. I do have a flat,” Sherlock scoffed.  
  
“Yes, you do. A flat that had the electricity cut and no access to the central heating,” Lestrade countered resignedly, peering under the washcloth at the skin which now had white blisters of varying sizes scattered along the length of his arm.  
  
“That’s what a fireplace is for,” Sherlock responded haughtily. “It’s not as if I am perfectly helpless on my own.”  
  
Lestrade snorted. “Ah yes, picture of maturity, you,” he responded, not looking up from his arm.  
  
Lestrade could practically feel the irritation radiating off of Sherlock. “I take care of myself perfectly fine, thank you. I-”  
  
“Stick needles full of stimulants in your arm when you get bored,” Lestrade finished. Sherlock opened his mouth, presumably to inform Lestrade on just how stupid human beings are, when Lestrade brushed past him towards the loo. Sometimes it was best to let him argue with himself and tune him out, Lestrade had learned. Try to out wait his seemingly boundless manic energy. So far the success rate was inconclusive.  
  
Rummaging in the medicine cabinet, Lestrade located the aloe mix his wife had bought the last time they had gone on holiday. Sherlock had followed him down the hallway, his voice buzzing with indignation that grated on Lestrade’s dull headache. He gave a hefty sigh and began to hum Beethoven’s fifth concerto under his breath while liberally spreading the aloe along his burns. While it drowned out most of the fussing, it was unsuccessful at eliminating the Sherlock’s deep bass altogether.  
  
“Look,” Lestrade turned and faced Sherlock, who had clearly been in the middle of his diatribe, his mouth still open and hands halted in the middle of gesticulating. “You’re brilliant. Probably one of the most brilliant people in the world. But I cannot let you go home to your subzero flat so I can find you frozen with a needle in your arm come morning. God, Sherlock, you’re more important than that!” Sherlock opened his mouth to begin anew, probably the lecture on sentiment that Lestrade heard most often, when Lestrade threw up his good hand. “I know, caring isn’t an advantage, but-” he cut himself off and ran his right hand through his hair, tugging on it lightly. He huffed in frustrated helplessness. God, he was rubbish at this feeling lark.  
  
Lestrade finally caught Sherlock’s wandering eyes and held them there. “I care, God help me. When you were detoxing...” Lestrade bit back the words with an aborted sigh and tried again. “Look. I know this doesn’t make sense, but you are more than just a brilliant mind to me. Mock me all you want, but I care if you end up in some gutter with a needle in your arm.” Sherlock’s eyes were still locked on Lestrade’s, his expression a mix of deductive observation and a tiny bit confused. Lestrade sagged against the sink and broke eye contact, suddenly drained. Silence bloomed between them in the tiny bathroom, his wife’s favorite perfume slowly diffusing from the cabinet drawer where he had disturbed it.  
  
Movement at the door had him glancing up again from the tiles at the floor. Sherlock was very deliberately stripping the tattered coat off his body, exposing a stained jumper three sizes too big underneath. He kept his eyes on Lestrade, an unreadable expression on his face as he removed the jumper as well, but the message was clear. The equally stained undershirt and exposed ribs made Lestrade resist the strangely paternal urge to make a huge Sherlockian blunder by engulfing this brilliant wayward kid in his arms. Instead, he pulled a clean towel from the bureau beside the shower and nonchalantly squeezed by Sherlock, shoving the folded cloth into his arms. Surprisingly, Sherlock let himself be cajoled, but pointedly deposited his filthy garments on the floor in front of Lestrade before making his way towards the shower. Biting back a smile, Lestrade scooped up the pile and quietly shut the door.  
  


* * *

  
  
An hour later, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, hot steam billowing in his wake. Lestrade was pleased to see Sherlock had put on the worn pajama pants and shirt he had placed outside the bathroom door, both of which hung askew off his lean frame. His curls were still dripping and he looked more like a sullen teenager rather than a grown man. Lestrade hid his small grin behind a fresh mug of tea and continued to read the paper.  
  
Sherlock padded over to the couch and perched on the armrest, the most self conscious Lestrade had ever seen him. Lestrade nudged a second teacup towards Sherlock, still steaming.  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and accepted the cup, taking a dainty sip. “Ah, a perfect 40 degrees. Interesting.”  
  
Lestrade raised an eyebrow in response, his gaze still on the paper in his lap. “Oh, I’ve been promoted from idiot.”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “I did not say that. I simply remarked on the fact that you were able to produce a decent cup of tea without personal or structural damage.”  
  
Lestrade grinned at that. “Well, you were otherwise occupied, so the tea making went without incident.”  
  
Sherlock wasn’t about to deign to respond to that, judging by the tense silence now blanketing the flat. Lestrade was still grinning when the door buzzed, causing Sherlock to flinch in surprise. Apparently pouting was not an activity that could be multitasked. Lestrade rose and answered the door, coming back with two boxes of Thai and a pair of fortune cookies. He placed one of the boxes of Thai food in front of Sherlock, topping it with one of the wrapped cookies.  
  
Sherlock looked indignantly at the cookie, shoving it aside in favor of the box of noodles.  Lestrade counted that as a win since Sherlock was showing any interest in the food at all. Lestrade opened his noodles in kind and they ate in as close to companionable silence as possible. Before long, the spicy noodles he’d ordered began to look more like something he’d find in a back alley crime scene and less like the comfort food it usually was. After about ten more minutes of halfheartedly poking at the now cold noodles, he gave up and deposited the barely eaten box on the coffee table.  
  
Sighing, he sat back on the couch and closed his eyes, exhaustion and nausea competing for his attention. He knew he should get up and change into his pajamas, probably should even be making sure Sherlock wasn’t nicking his badge or texting rude things to Anderson, but suddenly he just didn’t think he could be bothered to care. Which is why he flinched so violently when cold, slender fingers wrapped cautiously around his wrist right on his pulse point.  
  
When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by Sherlock’s curls close enough to tickle his nose, as he performed a stationary version of his “deductive dance”. Cool fingers were clinically assessing his vital signs, tugging at the buttons of his shirt, peering with that gaze of his into his haggard face. Belatedly, the invasiveness of the gestures registered and Lestrade batted Sherlock’s hands away. Sherlock’s indignant face was similar to that of a child that had just had an interesting game taken away. It was interrupted, however, when a rogue yawn escaped. The glare Sherlock gave the room at large for betraying his exhaustion had Lestrade biting back a laugh.  
  
“Time for bed, kiddo,” Lestrade attempted to ruffle Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock dodged. “The bedroom is right through there. I changed the sheets and turned up the thermostat. And don’t tell me you’re not tired,” Lestrade cut off the protest clearly on Sherlock’s lips. “I know for a fact that you haven’t slept or eaten in almost three days. Sleep, don’t sleep, I don’t care. Go and appreciate my sock drawer, or something.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to argue,” Sherlock responded in an exasperated tone, eyes narrowed. “You haven’t eaten your pad thai, which you like even if it has enough salt in it to raise your blood pressure, your temperature is slightly elevated indicating that your bout of bronchitis you had two weeks ago is lingering, probably because you insisted upon working this triple homicide against doctor orders. You’ve been wearing the same clothes for four and a half days which is the length your wife has been in Cardiff. You’ve been working longer hours than usual, probably because of some incessant need to prove to yourself that you matter to someone as you obviously don’t to your wife-”  
  
“Enough,” Lestrade said in a level voice, pushing Sherlock away as he stood and carefully keeping his expression blank. He was definitely not going down that road right now. He made to go towards his bedroom, determined to end this never ending day once and for all. Let Sherlock sleep on the couch, the prat. Sherlock, ever the stubborn fool, stepped in front of him, his tall form towering over him more than usual and effectively blocking his advance.  
  
“Get outta my way. Just let me have a night in peace where I don’t have to worry about my wife or your lack of self preservation or that crazy brother of yours interfering with my cases. One night where the murderers take a break and every young woman gets home safely and I don’t get there too late. Just one bloody night, is that too much to ask for?”  
  
Sherlock was silent for a long time as Lestrade stood there, beyond caring about his long dead dignity. About five minutes into their silent battle of wills, Sherlock grabbed his jaw and made Lestrade meet his eyes. Calloused fingers gripped his cheeks lightly, tickling his four day old scruff. The invasion of space was startling. Lestrade had never seen Sherlock willingly touch another person, much less for extended periods of time. Sherlock’s expression was one of frustration, but his eyes made Lestrade’s exasperated words die on his lips. Sherlock’s eyes were absent of mocking or annoyance, filled with... something akin to concern, if Lestrade could trust his instincts right now.  
  
“Don’t be so stupid. You are the least moronic Detective Inspector at the Yard. I refuse to work with anyone else; your intelligence is the closest to my level,” Sherlock told him seriously. “Which, admittedly, doesn’t indicate much.” He finished with a shrug.  
  
Lestrade just stared at him, more stunned than insulted, before bursting into laughter at the irony of a world in which one of the most self centered people Lestrade knows is comforting him and not the other way round. Lestrade thought it was lucky his laughing turned into exhausted coughing, sparing Sherlock from the intimate moment that he would have been forced to navigate. Instead, Sherlock guided him to the couch again and fetched him water, tentatively rubbing circles on his back until he controlled his breathing once more.  
  
They sat that way for a while, the weathered Detective Inspector and the freshly minted Consulting Detective, surrounded by warm blankets and the muted sound of early morning London traffic. Lestrade must have dozed off at some point with Sherlock’s ministrations, because when he woke there was a decidedly wrinkled note scrawled on a Tesco’s receipt in the atrocious handwriting of one Sherlock Holmes.  
  
‘Called Donovan. Day off. Take paracetamol. Heat back on. -SH’  
  
Lestrade glanced at the clock on the mantel eyed the bottle of pills on the coffee table, and decided that maybe he hadn’t done so badly by Sherlock after all.


End file.
